


A Worthy Match

by OneEntireBee



Category: Original Work
Genre: F/M, Jealousy, Mother/Son Incest, Oedipal Issues, Parent/Child Incest, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-06-29 23:24:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19840693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneEntireBee/pseuds/OneEntireBee
Summary: Vilta has reached the age when a young man should be married off. At the very least, he should be courting a lady. He’s happy to do the latter, but there may be some disagreement in the family over his chosen beau.





	A Worthy Match

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blue_ringed_octopus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blue_ringed_octopus/gifts).



Another day, another disappointed bridal candidate. Vilta sent the rosy-cheeked young woman off with a kiss on the hand that was only as intimate as custom demanded. She looked ready to cry as she returned to the swaying mass of partygoers. Perhaps Vilta would have felt the slightest bit of guilt, had these stupid matchmaking parties been his idea. No, it was his father who wouldn’t give up on finding a girl to shove his son off on. And it was his father who was now looking over at him with open disapproval.

“I’m beginning to think you have no interest in women,” Father said.

“Oh, I have plenty of interest in women, Father. I merely refuse to settle.”

Father rubbed his temple. “At our station in life, marriage is about duty, not finding your ideal mate. I’m sorry to burst your childish bubble.”

Vilta raised an eyebrow and gave his father a biting smile. “I hope you don’t mean to tell me you ‘settled’ for Mother.” 

If anything, it was certainly the opposite. Duchess Khatri was a divine woman. She was a perfect specimen of her homeland’s dominant tribe; a tall warrior woman with thick red curls, icy grey eyes, and a heavy coat of freckles over her broad shoulders. Her husband, Duke Namiel, was lanky and soft, with the smooth hands and dull attitude that came with a pampered upbringing.

Vilta was proud to say that, at least in appearances, he took after his mother. Perhaps his hair was more blond, and his muscles hadn’t yet filled out the way he would like them, but no one would mistake him for a purebred local noble. 

Assuming that Namiel had at least some sort of attraction to his wife, Vilta had inherited at least one thing from his father: His taste in women.

Incest wasn’t an unfamiliar concept to high society. The rights of royal blood were a tricky thing to secure, and all the cross-cultural marriages that had been pushed in the last few decades to secure new alliances were only muddying the waters. Typically, however, such dalliances were kept between siblings or cousins. Vilta was a single child, but even if he weren’t, he doubted any woman would have caught his eye like the woman who’d birthed him.

It wasn’t merely that Mother was beautiful, although she was. Gods below, she was. But she was intelligent, confident, and - unlike his coward of a father - willing to take a harsh hand when it was necessary. Whether that was in affairs of the court, or in taking Vilta across her knee when he deserved the punishment, Mother was what Vilta’s country - and Vilta himself - needed.

There was only one problem, and that problem was sitting at the table next to him, ignoring Vilta’s sarcastic question and getting steadily more drunk on the evening’s expensive wine. Vilta sighed and stood up. He needed to put some space between himself and his father. “As a matter of fact,” he announced, “I’m going to dance with a woman right now.”

Mother was seated at an alcove near the musicians’ platform. Noble men and women hovered around her, talking at her more than with her. When one of the socialites noticed Vilta’s approach, he became the new topic of inane conversation. He acknowledged the talk with little more than a series of nods as he maneuvered through the crowd to get to his mother.

“My my, the little one’s all grown up, isn’t he?”

“Oh, Khatri, dear — this is your boy? I should have known! He has your eyes.”

“Goodness me, boy, when did you get taller than me? I remember when you were a wee thing, running around and clutching at your mother’s skirts.”

“Ease up on him, everyone,” Mother said. Her voice was feminine, but by no means soft or lilting; every word she said commanded attention. “I’m sure he’s been beset with enough conversation tonight.”

“My hero,” Vilta addressed her with a smile. “I’m sure you’ve been busy yourself. May I offer you refuge in the form of a dance? I’ve told the musicians to play your favorite ballad next.”

Mother took his outstretched hand. The nobles surrounding them made oohs and ahhs of approval over such an open display of filial piety.

“Let me guess,” Mother said as they moved slowly and comfortably on the dance floor, “You don’t approve of any of the women you met tonight?”

Vilta sighed. “They just aren’t my type. You know me, Mother. I’m not going to give myself to a simpering maiden just because her father has money.”

Mother smirked. Her hand was warm where it rested on Vilta’s waist. “Do you want to know how my sister described Namiel to me, before I’d seen the man? She said, ‘Well, Khat, he’s a simpering boy of a man. But he has a pretty face and he doesn’t seem like he’ll get in your way.’ I’d say her assessment was on the mark, but don’t tell your father that.”

Vilta’s heart fluttered. He loved moments like this, when Mother shared some personal, secret joke with him. She wouldn’t be sharing this with Father. “Aunt’s excellent judge of character is safe with me, I promise.”

Mother gave him a quick peck on the forehead. “Good boy.”

 _Wicked woman_ , Vilta thought without malice. The whole ballroom was sure to see the blush that crept down his neck. Mother certainly did, but she only acknowledged it with a crooked smile that made the flush even worse.

When the song was over, he and Mother bowed to each other and kissed hands, the picture of formality in spite of Vilta’s earlier ruffled feathers. The kiss that Vilta pressed to her knuckles was far more genuine than the ones he’d turned down his would-be suitresses with. He was fairly sure he wasn’t imagining the fact that Mother returned it with the same passion.

Vilta didn’t spend long in his own room once the evening’s festivities were over. He waited long enough for the guests to leave and for his parents to prepare for their semi-regular nightly routine, then slipped through the halls to his parents’ quarters. He settled himself in the alcove beside the door to the master bedroom, loosened the ties of his breeches, and waited.

Eavesdropping on his parents’ sexual exploits had become a favorite pastime. His mother was no more silent in bed than she was in the courtroom. It was so easy to stroke himself to bliss listening to her grunts and cries. . . even with the knowledge that his pathetic father was the one pulling them from her. 

More than one butler and maid had run into Vilta on nights like these. Vilta found that meeting their eyes and steadfastly continuing to fondle himself was enough to send them scuttling away without confronting him. Besides, what right had they to admonish the future head of their household?

He realized his confidence in the help may have been misplaced when the bedroom door flew open. Vilta had no time to flee. Nor would he have wished to, after seeing what awaited him in the doorway.

His mother still wore the bodice from her evening gown. Besides that and a set of bloomers, she wore nothing else. She didn’t look at all surprised to see Vilta — nor did she look upset. 

The Duchess, his dear, glorious mother, crossed her arms and stared him down. “Your father and I have talked. If we’re going to have an uninvited guest in our bed, we may as well make him an invited one.”

Vilta was quite certain then that he was dreaming. Until he followed his mother’s beckoning finger into the master bedroom, and saw his damned father sitting in an armchair in nothing but a silky dressing down. He looked more feminine than Mother; Vilta’s wet dreams wouldn’t have put him there.

“Don’t make this sound like my idea, Khatri,” his father sighed. “I’m not touching him.”

“Damn right you aren’t,” Vilta said, finding his voice through the lingering shock.

Father narrowed his eyes at him. “But I am going to watch. That’s _my_ wife you’re dealing with, boy. Don’t forget it.”

“And she’s _my_ mother. Don’t forget it.”

“Boys. If you’re going to be like this the whole time, I’m kicking both of you out.”

Vilta’s mouth went dry as he turned to see his mother sitting at the foot of the bed. Her beautiful hair fell over her freckled shoulders, her posture sang of confidence, and Vilta wanted nothing more than to kneel between her legs and worship her.

“Sorry, Mother,” Vilta said, and went about showing just how eager he was to make it up to her.


End file.
